


Some Things Never Change

by SimplyLucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: A Tribute to the Count of Monte Cristo, Dark, Disguise, F/M, Faith of the Seven, Horror, Identity Issues, Inspired by Ann Radcliffe's novels, Isolation, Monks, Nightmare, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Prompt Fill, Real or imaginary, The Eyrie, Tourney in the Vale, Vale fic, ghost - Freeform, horror genre, sansan genre writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6395986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt by LadyTP<br/>Starting scene: The first time Sansa and Sandor meet each other again, in the Vale.<br/>Event: Sandor takes part in the tournament being organised by Littlefinger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fill was written for the SanSan Genre Writing Challenge. I got 'horror'...  
> After reading a lot on Horror genre, I decided to inspire myself from Mrs Radcliffe's novels and to focus on the atmosphere, because horror is, in the end, more a feeling than a genre. The first chapter is therefore rather long, because I needed to build up tension, by describing small events that increase Sansa's anxiety. If you like creepy hallways and angst, this is for you!  
> No one edited this fill but I sincerely hope you'll like it.

One hand pulling the heavy curtain aside, Alayne let her eyes wander on the lattice work of the window, before looking outside. Thick and humid, the freezing fog surrounding the Eyrie gave her the impression the castle wasn’t built on the rock but on clouds. Far from being a dream vision, it only heightened her feeling of isolation. Since her arrival in the Vale, loneliness had become as familiar as the sight of a dark-haired girl in her mirror. Of course, the Eyrie was a hive of activity and there were people to talk to. Of course, Myranda Royce was always ready to gossip and to brag about her interactions with the male sex; the Seven knew Myranda was friendly. She was no friend, though. _You can’t have friends when you can’t even tell them your real name,_ she thought, and her heart sank as she looked through the window. The curtain of fog was so dense one couldn’t see thirty feet ahead and that was exactly how she felt about her future; she was there, locked up in the Eyrie, waiting for Lord Baelish, whom she called “father”, to marry her off, probably to Harry the Heir. What would be her future like? She had no idea, but deep down Alayne sensed nothing good awaited her.

Mayhap Alayne’s despondency had something to do with the nightmare she had had - _once more_ \- that night. She swallowed hard, remembering how _real_ it felt and how scared she had been. _It felt real because that’s what happened. What could have happened anyway._ In her dream, Lady Lysa Arryn had that same mad look in her eyes while dragging her to the moon door and her grip was surprisingly strong, like it had been that fateful day. The cold wind on the nape of her neck felt exactly the same as Lysa opened the moon door. She couldn’t fight; fury blinded Lysa and increased her strength. Alayne had lost hope when Lord Baelish arrived, reasoning with Lysa, eventually making her calm down. That part of her dream was always in a blur, as she crawled away from the moon door and tried to catch her breath, but by the end of their conversation she always broke into a cold sweat.  When Baelish said he had loved only one woman, Catelyn… One shove and Lysa fell through the moon door, her embroidered dress billowing briefly before her shriek resonated in the High Hall...

That was generally when Alayne woke up, but not this time.

Once the High Hall went silent as a tomb, Lord Baelish reached for Alayne and hugged her, like any father did, she guessed, when their child narrowly escaped death. As he pressed her against his chest, Alayne didn’t dare protest, yet she felt, in the way his hands travelled across her back, that something was amiss. Soon the fatherly embrace gave way to kisses; Alayne tried to resist, to push him away, but he held her too tight. In the end, she gathered her forces and shoved him back. Baelish took a good look at her, as if he was seeing for the first time then stepped forward and willingly pushed her through the large hole in the floor. She felt herself falling endlessly and screaming, just like Lysa…

When she opened her eyes, she was fisting the sheets and she shook like a leaf.

_Pull yourself together. Dwelling on a nightmare will not change anything._

Alayne called her maid who brought her bread and tea to break her fast then helped her get ready. Once her brown hair was satisfyingly done in a long, fancy braid, she gave a good look at her reflection in the polished metal mirror, smoothed the skirts of her green dress and left her bedchamber.

It would be a busy day, as the tournament Lord Baelish organized for her was supposed to take place two days later. The castle was already crowded with knights who had arrived during the past sennight and now strutted along the hallways. One of the Corbrays and the young Belmore greeted her and tried to strike up a conversation. To no avail : Alayne wasn’t in the mood for dalliance. She courteously told them lots of things needed to be done before the tournament - which wasn’t even a lie - and she hurried toward the High Hall, where she knew she’d found Lord Baelish. The prospect of spending time in the very room she had dreamed about the night before made her shudder. Or was it the idea of sitting beside her ‘father’? _Do_ _I_ _have_ _a_ _choice?_ she asked herself, apprehension making her stop in her tracks _._ She shook her head and resumed her walk.

Although the sun had risen a couple of hours before, the fog was so thick servants had lit the torches in the hallway ; it gave Sansa the unpleasant impression the night was going on and on. The light was so dim one of the maids almost ran into her as Sansa turned left at the end of the hallway.

After apologizing profusely, the maid informed her Lord Baelish wanted her to wear her emerald necklace and that Sweetrobin insisted to have her walking him to the High Hall. Alayne let out a deep sigh, nodded and walked back to her bedchamber. The same bleak hallways, the same torches casting shadows on the stone walls… This time again, she had to spurn, as politely as she could, the two knights who conversed in the hallways. Once the emerald necklace shone against her pale skin, she hurried to Sweetrobin’s apartments. _I’m going to be late for the audience…_ Her ‘father’ loathed tardiness: she lengthened her stride and could almost see Sweetrobin’s door when the sound of door slamming followed by a woman’s shriek broke the silence somewhere further. Alayne froze.

“It can’t be!” the woman Alayne couldn’t see yet shouted. “It can’t be her.”

Her tone and above all her words turned Alayne’s blood to ice; she couldn’t explain it and deep down she knew it made no sense at all, but the first image that came to Alayne’s mind was that of Lysa Arryn’s face.

Taking a sharp intake of breath, Alayne walked towards the spot where the woman was. She saw the form of a woman sitting or rather collapsed on the floor tiles, shaking, using her wobbling hands and feets to put as much space as possible between herself and the door she had just slammed shut. Far from reassuring the woman, Alayne’s apparition seemed to scare her even more and she scrambled to her feet.

“No, no,” Alayne said, inching closer. “It’s over, you have nothing to fear.” She knelt down to make eye contact with her.

The woman was a middle-aged servant going by Marla. Her matronly looks impressed the younger maids whom she enjoyed to lecture, but nothing was left of Marla’s self-confidence as she gazed at Alayne’s face.

“The Seven have mercy on me, I saw something. It makes no sense, but...”

Too upset to give Alayne a satisfying explanation, Marla pointed a chubby finger at the door behind Alayne; the girl swivelled her head and looked at the heavy door adorned with scrollwork. Her heart skipped a beat.

Behind that door only servants opened to keep the place clean, were Lysa Arryn’s apartments. _Surely she didn’t see Lady Lysa,_ Alayne mused. She gave Marla a tentative smile. “What did you see, exactly?”

The servant snapped her eyes closed then opened them again reluctantly. “I was in Lady Lysa’s bedchamber, cleaning everything, as I always do... I felt a presence… I thought it was her, m’lady, so I ran and slammed the door, and I fell...”

“It’s over,” Alayne whisperd, more to convince herself than to comfort the scared woman.

“Do you know what day it is, today?” Marla insisted. “She _fell_ exactly two years ago.” As Alayne shook her head, the servant reached for her wrist. “They never found her body, m’lady and-”

“Listen to me carefully. Marillion, this depraved, wicked man, pushed Lady Lysa through the moon door. I was there. I saw him doing it. Then he payed for his crimes.” That tale, Alayne had told it over and over, until the words came almost too easily, until she wondered what was true and what wasn’t. _Does repeating a lie over and over make it more believable?_

“She’s dead now, and dead people don’t come back to life,” Alayne went on. “You saw a curtain moved by the wind or by a cat, didn’t you? You miss Lady Lysa and your mind is playing tricks on you.”

Her confident, determined tone surprised Alayne but not as much as the servant’s reaction. Marla’s eyes darted away from Alayne’s face and fell to her lap. After a long, uncomfortable silence she muttered: “I don’t know M’lady. M’lady must be right. Mayhap it was one of them cats... I served Lady Lysa for such a long time…”

Nauseated by her own lies about Lysa’s death, Alayne stood up and walked to Robin’s door, which was only a few steps away. The boy couldn’t have missed Marla’s screaming, she realized, and a tumult such as this was all it took to cause another seizure… She knocked at the door.

“Who’s here?” a shrill voice asked inside.

“It’s me, Alayne. Open to me, Sweetrobin.”

Once the bolt was removed, the door creaked open, and she saw the frail heir of House Arryn wearing his finest clothes, scanning the hallways, with his feverish eyes. Alayne asked if he had heard Marla screaming.

“I did,” he said calmly.

“I’m surprised you didn’t open the door to see what was going on and if you could... help.”

The boy frowned deeply, as if it was the strangest thing he had ever heard. “Why would I open the door? Screaming means danger: why would I open the door if there’s some danger outside, pray tell? I hid under the bed!”

_Some things never change._

“Why did she shout?” the boy asked, as Alayne combed his hair.

Alayne couldn’t tell him the truth and mention the boy’s dead mother. She placed a lock of hair behind Sweetrobin’s ear. “Marla… got scared. By a cat, most likely.”

_Lies, untruths, tales… Some things never change._

* * *

 

The High Hall was crowded for supper and Alayne secretly felt sorry for the cooks and servants who had a hard time because the tournament the Eyrie hosted brought so many knights in the castle. Lord Baelish’s guests tried to draw her attention by talking and laughing harder than needed and Alayne politely answered with an incline of her head when they looked at her and raised their cups.

From where she was, she could see the entire hall and the dozens of knights and lords eager to stand out during the tournament. At the far end of the High Hall, she could also see a group of brown brothers who had arrived that same day and whom she had seen during the morning’s audience. They were five, all but their leader hooded and silent. Their leader, a bald man with a big, veined nose who called himself the Elder Brother, had explained they were on their way back to their septry on the Quiet Isle and had lost their way because of the fog; he had begged Lord Baelish to let them stay until the oldest of the brothers was strong enough to continue their journey and Lord Baelish had magnanimously invited them to have supper in the High Hall, after which they were allowed to spend the night in the stables. Rooms were for those who could prove quarters of nobility.

Alayne watched the brothers as they slowly ate their food. They had removed the scarf hiding their features, but they kept their head lowered. From time to time, one of the brothers coughed - Alayne guessed it was the one whose poor health had made them stop - and the Elder Brother would look at him with concern. The two monks sitting next to the sick one were short and even frail, wearing brown tunics too big for them. The last one, who had his back to Alayne was in comparison so tall and so broad-shouldered he dwarfed most of the knights. Their silent group contrasted with the merry company drinking and pigging out at the expense of Lord Baelish.

“Why so gloomy, Alayne?” Myranda Royce asked her. “You didn’t even eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s what you said at noon,” Myranda commented, before licking some gravy off her fingers. Alayne mentally rolled her eyes. That was one of Myranda’s favorite tricks to draw attention on her, with wearing low-cut dresses and tilting her head back when she laughed. Of course, two knights sitting nearby - a Redfort and a Lynderly, if Alayne was correct - were now ogling Myranda.

“Still thinking about the ‘ghost’ the servant saw this morning?”

Myranda’s voice exuded a very unpleasant sense of irony. _Men are the only subject she can talk about seriously,_ Alayne realized.

“It wasn’t a ghost. Marla saw something and got scared, that’s all,” she sighed.

_Can’t you just believe me?_ she thought, turning to face Myranda. The Royce girl was swirling the wine in her cup, while smiling at the Lynderly boy. _I guess I can’t ask you to believe me since I’m not telling you all the truth about Lysa’s death. Or about my name._ Her chest constricting, she avoided Myranda’s gaze.

As Ser Roland Waynwood started to sing _‘The Lusty Lad’,_ her eyes scanned the hall and lingered again on the brown brothers’ group. Soon enough, half the men joined their voices to Ser Roland and Alayne wished she could put her fingers in her ears without looking like the rude bastard girl some of the guests thought she was. The brown brothers had stopped eating and seemingly listened to the cacophony, except the tall one who had his back to Alayne and kept his head lowered.

“Why are you watching these septons?” Myranda asked her, once the song was over. “It’s not like they’re interested in women. Or did you become suddenly so wicked you’d like to know if you could make one of them stray from the right path?”

Alayne gave her a bewildered look. _She’ll never understand. Sometimes it’s as if she and I didn’t belong to the same species._

“How do we know they’re septons, by the way?” The chesty girl folded her arms in an attempt to make her cleavage even more obvious. “We can’t see their faces, Alayne! They might as well be thieves or murderers. They might belong to the Brotherhood Without Banners. Who knows? Mayhap they came here to kill Lord Baelish or to ravish you, my sweet girl.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

Anger had replaced unease and Alayne would have snapped at her if a commotion near the door leading to the kitchens had not interrupted them. One of the youngest servant, a girl of six-and-ten, had stormed in, dishevelled and visibly panicked. An older servant tried to calm her down but as people had stopped talking around them, everyone heard the girl shouting: “Lady Lysa! I saw Lady Lysa! She is back, she wants revenge!”

Some laughed, one or two lords said the girl should be punished for disturbing the feast, but most people remained awfully silent.

“It’s been exactly two years since Lady Lysa died,” old Horton Redfort said, nodding. He was sitting not far from Alayne and Myranda. “Poor Lady Lysa. She loved tournaments.”

Further on Alayne’s right, the servant girl wouldn’t stop crying and screaming.

“I saw her! She was standing in front of me and she said she wanted revenge!” Wiggling, the girl tried to escape the embrace of the older woman who tried to make her keep quiet and she addressed Lord Baelish: “She had blood on her dress and she said she wanted revenge!”

A hush fell on the assembly. The veiled accusation in the servant’s words was serious enough to incense the lord protector of the Vale. He thumped the table, making the silver plates and cups tinkle in the process. Next to her Myranda jumped at this unexpected outburst. Alayne’s head was spinning. _What if it was true? What if Lysa was back? If she sought revenge, she’d turn against Petyr, then she’d turn against me…_

She didn’t believe in ghosts but there were moments when the Eyrie’s uncanny atmosphere challenged her certainties. A quick glance at Lord Baelish confirmed his displeasure; he gave some orders and in the end, Lothor Brune left his seat to drag the girl out of the High Hall.

Once the girl had disappeared, some of the guests made a point of honor to talk and to sing louder than before; their fake cheerfulness only increased Alayne’s disquiet. She stood up.

“What are you doing?” Myranda asked her, looking at her incredulously.

“I don’t feel very well, I’d rather go to bed early and get some sleep.”

“You’re going to miss the best part of the feast!”

_You mean the moment when lords and knights are so deep in their cups they’re all bawdy jokes and boisterous laughter?_ If Alayne missed the end of the feast, she could get over it. There was something in the air she couldn’t stand anymore: leaving the High Hall would help, of that she was sure.

Surprised by her own boldness but nonetheless shaken after the incident, she headed to the kitchens and soon found Lothor Brune in one of the hallways: backlit by the torches, his tall frame loomed over the servant girl, who still sobbed, cradling her head. When he saw Alayne, the quiet freerider took a couple of steps forward and lifted his palms in astonishment: “Why are you not in the High Hall?”

“I’m tired, tired of all this.” As his eyes widened, she added: “Don’t mind me; I don’t feel like myself today. Besides… I was worried about this servant. How is she?”

Lothor Brune gave the servant a long look then lead Alayne a bit further. “She swears she saw Lady Lysa... I say the girl is impressionable. There was apparently another incident this morning, with Fat Marla. Marla told everyone in the kitchens she had seen something in Lady Lysa’s apartments and that she had thought it was her ghost… before you convinced her otherwise.”

Alayne bit her lip and stared down. A large hand stroke her upper arm, giving her the strength to look up at Lothor’s honest place. “This place has turned in a hive of activity since the first knights arrived. Two years after her death, servants talk about Lady Lysa and the horrible way she died every single day. Servants talk and soon they get carried away. Lady Lysa doesn’t need to… come back as a ghost to be everywhere in this castle. You should go back to the feast, now.”

“I’d rather go to bed.”

“Suit yourself. Do you want me to walk you to your bedchamber?”

Alayne shook her head and bid him goodnight. Lothor Brune might be one of the only persons she trusted in the Eyrie, he didn’t need to know how confused she was.

She started walking away, but stopped when Lothor Brune was still in earshot. “What the servant said… It felt so real in the High Hall.” Alayne glanced back at the tall man over her shoulder. “These accusations against Lord Baelish…”

“I know,” Brune rasped.

Their eyes met and Alayne realized the man had a far more comprehensive view of what had transpired after her arrival in the Vale than he would ever admit. She showed a clean pair of heels and headed to her apartments.

In the deserted hallways, her footsteps echoed strangely. If the atmosphere of the crowded, noisy High Hall had felt oppressive, the silence here was no less stifling - perhaps in a more intimidating way. Alayne couldn’t even explain her unease by the feeble lighting: torches lit the empty hallways, and she told herself Lord Baelish had indeed loosened the purse strings for the tournament. This idea forced a smile out of her, as she lengthened her stride. With each step, she was getting closer to the safety of her bedchamber; never had she been so eager to lock herself in her gilded cage...

A noise, behind her, made her turn around. _Don’t make a fool of yourself,_ she thought, considering the quiet, empty corridor. _Are you afraid of your own shadow now?_

She swallowed hard, then resumed her walk. _You’re almost there._ Her chambermaid wouldn’t be there to help her prepare herself before the night, but at least a solid oak door would stand between Alayne and the rest of the world. _A thick door, that’s exactly what I-_

The noise, again. Footsteps? Her heart was pounding.

“Who’s there?” she asked, spinning on her heels. “Ser Lothor? Are you there?” Her voice broke.

_Mayhap Ser Lothor changed his mind and followed me. I told him not to, so there’s no way he would do that, but…_ No answer came, but she distinctly heard footsteps at the end of the hallway. _Am I mad? Is someone playing tricks on me?_ Forgetting all sense of dignity, she picked up her skirts and ran. Her pretty dress hampered her movements and panic blurred her vision: she nevertheless kept running, eyes fixed on the torch next to her door that shone like a beacon…  Out of breath when she reached her bedchamber, she fumbled with the door handle. _Almost there, you’re almost there…_

Someone grabbed her wrist while she tried to open the door, then a hand covered her mouth to prevent her from screaming. Alayne tried to wiggle away, but her attacker was too strong. For want of anything better, she scratched his forearms. The skin under her fingers was thick, like a scab or a burnt. _Ghosts don’t have scabs,_ she thought.

“You’ve grown talons, haven’t you?” a man growled against her temple. That voice… Alayne had thought she’d never hear it again. In fact, Alayne Stone had never heard this gravelly voice; it was part of Sansa Stark’s memories and as such, only summoned at night, in the solitude of her bedchamber…

“Will you keep quiet if I let go of you?”

She nodded against the large palm that still gagged her. _It can’t be._ In comparison, Lysa Arryn coming back from the dead seemed almost plausible. _He was reported dead after what happened in Saltpans and-_

The man made her spin on her heels until she faced him. The torch cast the strangest shadows on his burns, but the hood of a brown brother’s tunic still prevented her from seeing the rest of his face.

“Sandor Clegane?” she whispered. “Let me look at you.” Without waiting for a yes, she extended her arm to free his head from the coarse-textured fabric. His hair was much shorter - like it had been shorn - and on the burnt side of his head there was no hair at all. Years had also left their marks on his features but his gray eyes pierced through her. _Just like before._

Maybe her gesture, when she had tugged at his hood earlier, had encouraged him to be more familiar with her because she soon felt his hand on her braid. “Why is Sansa Stark’s hair brown now? Why is she going by a bastard’s name?"

“Sansa Stark doesn’t exist anymore, I’m afraid.”

He snorted at that. She had been Alayne Stone for such a long time it felt odd to let go of this identity: Alayne had been like a gown, itchy, yet comfortable and she had somehow get used to it.

“Sansa Stark needed a disguise,” she heard herself mutter, as she realized how liberating these simple words felt. _I can be Sansa again, at least as we speak, him and I._ She carefully checked their surroundings and lead her inside her bedchamber. “So did Sandor Clegane, apparently. Why are you here?”

Inside her room, his brownish tunic looked incongruous. She pushed the door closed and tried to regain her composure.

“Don’t you know why I’m here, Sansa?”

“To scare the wits out of me,” she said in jest but the words she wanted to say were caught in her throat.

“The tournament will count another contestant. You can either decide to stay here or leave with me during the feast Littlefinger will give to celebrate the winners. You have a choice to make, little bird. Now sleep on it.”

Before she could react, he had opened the door, checked the hallways and walked out of her bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fear is a powerful thing," the Elder Brother said. "I once met a man whom everybody thought invincible but who was afraid of his feelings for a girl.”
> 
> She swallowed hard. _Is he talking about…?_
> 
> “It takes time to overcome fear. It took this man some time to get rid of his old demons but I think he’s ready now. Tonight, in the godswood, at the hour of the owl. He’ll be there for you, Lady Sansa. Tonight and tomorrow and as long as you need him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Real life… To make it up to you, this chapter is a long one, with a good amount of Sansan. This is the chapter where ‘Alayne’ decides to let go of her false identity and to become Sansa again.  
> Written with love, but not edited by a beta reader: if you come across a mistake, let me know.

The shadows were already lengthening on the disjointed tiles as she pushed open the door of the vaulted hall. Narrow windows lit the long room on the left side and stone ribs led her gaze to the keystone, adorned with the coat of arms of House Arryn : one of the falcon’s wings was broken, like a cruel reminder of House Arryn’s uncertain future. Further on the left, a sitting form clad in a brown robe seemed to blend in with the limestone.

Heart fluttering in her chest, Alayne tiptoed toward the form before stopping, for fear of disturbing the Elder Brother’s prayers. As he had ensconced himself in the window seat, his square shoulders resting against the lower part of the window frame, the late afternoon sun lit the back of his bald head. Eyes closed, arms folded about his large chest, he hid his hands in his sleeves and he was so still one could have thought he was carved in the grayish stone - or that he dozed off - if it wasn’t for the constant movement of his lips, mumbling prayers. The Elder Brother praying was one of the most peaceful images she had seen lately, she therefore hesitated before clearing her throat.

The Elder Brother opened his eyes at once and arched an eyebrow at the girl.

“Do you mind if I sit with you for a while, brother ?” she asked, smoothing her skirts demurely.

“I believe there is enough room here for the two of us.”  With that, he scooted to the left, so that she could sit more comfortably under the lattice work.

“May I ask what you were praying for?”

“Brother Heliaz. You saw him when we arrived here. He’s the oldest and the most fragile of us all and his health concerns me… As we speak, he’s resting on a pallet, too weak to get up… What is it you want, child?”

Alayne remained silent at first. _What could I possibly tell him ?_

“I wager you met our common friend, my lady,” he said, all of a sudden. Alayne swiveled her head and gaped at him. Suppressing a smile, the Elder Brother rubbed his big, veined nose. “I know who he is and what you mean to him,” he added, looking her in the eye. “And I know what is your real name.”

“Careful, please,” she whispered.

At the end of the vaulted hall, the creaking of a door followed by heavy footsteps announced the upcoming arrival of someone and therefore heightened her fears. She let her eyes fall to her lap, too embarrassed to look at the intruder. The jingling sound of spurs convinced Alayne it was some knight and when she finally looked up to greet him, she recognized the sigil of House Hersy. _A white winged chalice, on a pink field._ The young man slowed down, visibly wondering whether he should stop to make conversation, but the sight of the Elder Brother was enough to discourage a knight from whispering sweet nothings in Alayne’s ear. He walked away, allowing her to breath more easily.

“I know exactly why Sandor Clegane is here,” the Elder Brother explained once the young Hersy was out of earshot. “I encouraged him: we wouldn’t have undertaken this journey, my brothers and I, otherwise.”

“Is he a member of your community or are you just… hiding him from the Lannisters? How did you meet?”

The Elder Brother chuckled at her questions. “I found him, wounded, agonizing on the Trident. I took him to the Quiet Isle. You do know that we host male penitents, don’t you? Well, at first he was one of them.”

 _At first ? Does it mean he took vows recently? Is he a godly man now?_ Somehow, the idea Sandor Clegane renouncing all wordly relations and possessions confused her. _Did he renounce to have... a wife ?_ As improper as it was, the question burned her lips.

“Pardon me, but are these robes he wears a disguise or the sign that he chose a… different path, closer to the Seven?” she asked, her throat as dry as parchment.

“You want to know if he took vows, don’t you ?” A knowing smile played about his lips. “What kind of monk would be our friend, according to you? Hmm? He’s quite a bad brother, sullen, but unable to respect the vow of silence, cursing and calling the Seven’s name in vain. Hard-working but too strong-headed to work with his brothers.” He paused, staring into space. “He could have become a very bad monk had I insisted to keep him on the Quiet Isle… Instead of making a terrible monk, I pride myself on helping him become a better man,” he said after a while.

“Did he tell you what he intends to do during the tourney ?”

The Elder Brother nodded. “We came here with a cart and his horse, the one he named after the Stranger. The cart contains his weapons and armor.”

One of the doors opened again and Alayne jumped, then glanced at the Elder Brother as if they were accomplices caught in the act. Small hurried footsteps echoed under the vault as Myranda headed to the spot where they sat.

“Alayne, at last ! I was looking for you.” Myranda puckered her lips, making her small mouth look even smaller.

“Whatever it is, I believe it can wait until my conversation with the Elder Brother is over.” Myranda’s sense of priority was different from hers: Alayne knew it.

Shifting from foot to foot, Myranda looked at her with insistence, carefully avoiding the Elder Brother’s eyes. _He doesn’t make her comfortable. What does she imagine? That as a godly man he senses she’s not the chaste widow she pretends to be? Everybody knows Myranda’s not chaste, except for her father, of course._

“There’s been another incident,” Myranda explained, drawing her brown curly hair over a shoulder. “A squire, a redheaded boy serving Ser Madeg Ruthermont. It happened a couple of minutes ago, in the yard. The boy started trembling and shouting that he had seen Lady Lysa’s ghost, while you were deep in conversation with the Elder Brother.” Her tone was laced with bitterness as she brought her hands to her hips.

“As a matter of fact, your friend was discussing these events with me,” the Elder Brother intervened. “We were trying to see what we could do to alleviate the pain of those who claimed to see this ghost.”

“Like organizing some big ceremony with chants and candles and incense to banish the ghost out of the castle ?” Myranda suggested, a mocking smile on her lips.

Alayne’s eyes widened. “Myranda, you’re being rude.”

“I was thinking about visiting the persons who claimed they saw the ghost.” The Elder Brother’s tone was even. “Talking to them and trying to reassure them seems a good start. Will you take me to these poor souls?” he asked, turning to Alayne.

She nodded graciously, then glanced at Myranda who was still standing in front of them. _Why don’t you leave?_ Alayne didn’t like the harsh tone some high-born ladies used to send away people - moreover, it wasn’t appropriate for a bastard girl - but it took her a great deal of patience not to tell Myranda to take a walk. When Myranda finally understood her silent order and took a step back, she gave Alayne a long look before walking away.

“Let’s talk to these people who supposedly met Lady Lysa’s ghost,” the Elder Brother suggested once Myranda was gone.

* * *

The servant girl who had disturbed the feast the night before was sitting on her pallet, in the servants’ quarters, one foot bobbing up and down. With her head lowered, she listened carefully to the soothing words the Elder Brother whispered to her. Alayne stood a bit further, waiting for the septon. At some point, she saw tears rolling down the servant girl’s cheeks before swift fingers wiped them away. The girl nodded to whatever the Elder Brother was saying.

Slowly, the man stepped back and turned around to look at Alayne. “I guess we’re done, except if we manage to find Ser Madeg’s squire,” he muttered. “I will walk you to your apartments. A lady like you is expected to change clothes before supper.” It reminded Alayne it was already late: Lord Baelish’s bastard daughter had obligations she couldn’t shy away from.

Their walk through the hallways was silent until Alayne inquired: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

The tall man walking by her side didn’t answer immediately but freeze, thus forcing Alayne to stop in her tracks. “I believe our fears can make us do or see strange things, Sansa of House Stark.”

“Please don’t…”

“Like hiding ourselves, forgetting who we are, in hopes of… surviving.”

Alayne squeezed her eyes shut.

“I don’t think these two servants I talked to saw a ghost,” he went on. “They’re afraid, is all. Afraid of dissatisfying their new master, afraid of the things they don’t understand. Fear is a powerful thing. I once met a man whom everybody thought invincible but who was afraid of his feelings for a girl.”

She swallowed hard. _Is he talking about…?_

“It takes time to overcome fear. It took this man some time to get rid of his old demons but I think he’s ready now. Tonight, in the godswood, at the hour of the owl. He’ll be there for you, Lady Sansa. Tonight and tomorrow and as long as you need him.”

Holding his gaze, she fisted the fabric of her skirts. His big palm brushed her shoulder ever so slightly and they resumed their walk to Alayne’s bedchamber. She would don a rich velvet dress and put on some jewels but at that moment she knew these garments she used to enjoy were just the costume of a girl who didn’t exist, except in the tortured mind of Littlefinger, and who would vanish into thin air if she decided to put an end to the masquerade. _Alayne Stone only exists because I accepted to play this part. She dies if I decide I don’t need her anymore. Maybe it’s time for Sansa Stark to stop hiding._

 _The godswood…_ She exhaled a deep sigh, imagining the sacred place at night, silent, a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the shadows. The man would call her little bird and she sensed that the nickname that once sounded derogatory would be music to her ears…

“Alayne, my dear!” Petyr’s honeyed voice raised her from her thoughts; he was striding the hallways to meet them. “I was looking for you. There are matters we need to discuss,” he said with a smile, planting himself in front of her.

“I’m sorry, _Father._ ” After so many moons pretending she was a bastard, lies came easily to her. “I believe it is already late and I should prepare myself for tonight’s feast.”

“It will only take a moment, sweetling.”

The Elder Brother cleared his throat. “I believe it is time for me to take my leave. Old Brother Heliaz needs me anyway… My Lord, Lady Alayne… I will see you in the High Hall.”

As the Elder Brother walked away, she noticed how Petyr glared at him. “Bloody septon,” he spat. “What did he want with you?”

“In fact, _I_ went to talk to him.”

Petyr snorted. “Why would you talk to a septon? If you have something on your mind, why don’t you tell your father?”

 _Always this dreadful comedy._ She felt his hand on her upper arm, right above her elbow, as he lead her to the solar; the contact made her skin crawl but she didn’t resist him.

“Yesterday’s incident during the feast upset me. I needed to talk about it. About the ghost or whatever it is, about what’s awaiting us after we die… Forgive me, Father, I love our conversations, but I didn’t want to bother you with religion and metaphysics.”

His chuckle filled the hallways, allowing her to relax - up to some point. “You know me well, Alayne. Metaphysics bores me. I nonetheless hope the septon answered your questions or at least reassured you.”

“He sure did,” she said. Her sibylline tone didn’t seem to raise any suspicion from Petyr who opened the door of the solar, stepped aside gallantly and closed the door behind them.

“At last,” he sighed, leaning against the closed door. “Can I tell you a secret, sweetling? I hate this tourney. Don’t mistake me, I don’t regret organizing it… We’re doing this for our beloved Lord Robert, of course. I just want them gone. All these lords and knights, turning around you, eyeing you… I saw them last night. Nestor Royce’s daughter seems to believe they’re all looking at her, but it’s you they’re interested in. Do you know how it makes me feel?”

Her back stiffened as he closed the distance between them. During her long stay in King’s Landing then in the Eyrie, she had learned not to let show her fear and to keep her face unreadable when her muscles contracted painfully and looming danger sent shivers down her spine.

“Do you know how it makes me feel?” Petyr insisted. She could now smell mint on his breath.

“I understand you don’t like it, Father. What is it you wanted to discuss with me?”

A brief chuckle then a pat on her shoulder increased her alarm. _Not again. Please._ Leaving her shoulder, his fingers stroked her brown hair, traced the jawline.

“No, I don’t like it Alayne and that’s why I needed to have a private conversation with you. Now be a good daughter and give me a kiss.”

Hesitating, she leaned forward to place a kiss on his forehead - as she was taller than him, she didn’t need to stand on tiptoe. A growl of disapproval stopped her as her lips brushed the place right above his eyebrow.

“Give your father a proper kiss, Alayne,” he whispered. His tone was equal parts supplication and authority. She soon felt his fingers around her wrists, tightening their grip in order to pull her close.

 _I won’t give him a kiss. He’ll have to take it from me…_ Her act of resistance, as small as it was, surprised him; she saw it in his gray-green eyes, before his wormy lips covered hers. She abruptly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to forget his smell, his touch and the unwanted intimacy.

Unable to endure it any longer, she broke their embrace, probably way too early to his taste.

“Why so shy, Alayne? Hmm?”

She didn’t answer, eyes down, massaging her wrists he had finally let go of. “Can I be excused? I need to change clothes for the feast.”

Without waiting for his answer, she walked to the door and exited the solar, wondering if a thousand hot baths were enough to make her forget his touch.

* * *

The feast was as noisy and lengthy as it was the night before, without any servant interrupting and ruining the festivities though. Next to her, Myranda pouted, and she couldn’t decide whether it was Myranda’s way to punish her for being so secretive or a new attempt to draw men’s attention on her.

In the meanwhile, she played her part, smiling gracefully to the lords who sat at the same table and she champed at the bit before her meeting with Sandor Clegane.

Already in his cups, Ser Roland Waynwood started singing _‘Six Maids in a Pool’_ when the Elder Brother and his companions quietly left the High Hall. _Perhaps should I leave now too…_

The song had brought a smile on Myranda’s face and she beat time, her eyes following Ser Roland who walked from one table to the next, encouraging the other men to sing with him.

_“Oh oh, glorious Florian-_

_He was the first who had opened her thighs_

_Oh oh, glorious Florian,_

_Run from thousands of lies_

_To the happiest day of their lives…”_

As quietly as possible, Sansa pushed herself from her seat. Sneaking out of the High Hall wasn’t so difficult, after all, as long as everybody’s attention was on a second-rate singer who sought confidence at the bottom of a wine jug… Heading to the door, she moved past Petyr who turned his head in time to see her.

“Alayne!” he called.

She stopped in her tracks. “I don’t feel very well, Father. It could be the venison… I hope you didn’t have any.”

“Are you going to bed already?”

“I’d better get some rest if I want to attend the tourney tomorrow,” she explained.

The man stroked his pointed beard, his eyes scanning her face. Was it concern she saw on his features? In the end, he nodded imperceptibly and she took it as a permission to leave.

The walk to her bedchamber was a quick one and apart from a couple of servants scurrying along the hallways to the kitchens, she saw no one. Once in her room, she retrieved a fur-lined cloak from her mahogany trunk, wrapped herself in it and determinedly headed to the godswood.

Snowflakes danced in the air outside. She stopped for a second on the doorstep, watching the godswood surrounded by the towers of the castle. From where she was, with the dim light provided by the moon, she couldn’t see anyone. Sandor Clegane knew better than standing in the middle of the godswood, where anyone could see him though. She carefully walked down the stairs already covered by snow and entered the sacred place where no heart tree grew.

“Where are you?” she asked shyly. The cloud of her breath soon dissolved in the air as she looked around.

Suddenly she felt a large hand on her shoulder and she had her answer. Turning around a bit too fast, she almost bumped into Sandor Clegane.

Like the night before, he wore a brown robe and had his hood on to hide his features. “I didn’t know you missed me so much,” he growled.

His remark was meant to provoke her and incense her, if possible. _As if…_ She bit her lip before anything stupid came out of it, placed her gloved hand on his arm and finally whispered: “It’s true I wondered where you were hiding all day… Mayhaps I missed you.”

Her confession possibly caught him by surprise for he mumbled unintelligibly; her words helped her realize that, in truth, she had missed him. Her cheeks became warmer instantly.

“Are you going to reveal your identity during the tourney?” she asked him, suddenly afraid of what awaited them.

“Of course not. I will not give my name and I’ll wear a helmet at all times. Don’t fret. Littlefinger thinks me dead. Besides, he always underestimated me; he’s so convinced he’s smarter than anyone he’s not careful enough.”

Despite his reassuring answer, she felt a tightness in her chest. It had been a long time since she had worried for someone else and believed her fate was bound to someone else’s. _That’s what happens when one loses their family: you mourn but you don’t worry for the dead._ Throughout the last few years, ravens had brought terrible news about all the ones she had loved, except for Arya who had disappeared such a long time ago it was more than likely that she was dead. Only Jon remained, hundreds and hundreds of leagues away, belonging to another family now that he had taken the black - and she had never been close to Jon anyway.

Tonight, however, as her fingers rested on Sandor Clegane’s forearm, she truly felt close to someone and worried about their future. Of course her life could change drastically if he managed to steal her away from the Vale, but she sensed there was something else behind the selfish yet natural desire to leave her cage. If Sandor Clegane’s plan failed for some reason, she wouldn’t have to face the consequences - at the most, her ‘father’ would lock her in her room for a couple of days. Only the man who had tried to save her would pay the price and she realized she couldn’t stand that notion.

“Please be careful.” Her voice wavered but for some reason, she didn’t mind sounding fragile and sensitive in front of him.

“Don’t fret,” he said again, resting his calloused hand on her gloved one. “I can take care of myself.”

She briefly looked up at his face, still hidden by the hood, then on an impulse, she withdrew her hand to remove her glove and she placed it again on Sandor Clegane’s who sucked in a deep breath and squeezed her fingers. Her gesture was utterly foolish, as it was snowing, but she didn’t care. Heart pounding, she stood on tiptoe and tugged at his hood to get a better look at him. _Like last night. Am I getting into the habit of doing this every time we meet?_

Under her fingers, she felt him shiver. _Am I dreaming? Is it possible that a man like him shivers when one touches him?_ Then she remembered the Elder Brother’s words about Sandor Clegane and his fears. In the dim light provided by the moon, his face was unreadable, but she was used to his violent reactions when he disliked something. _If he doesn’t say anything, it means he doesn’t find it unpleasant. Mayhaps he finds it pleasant after all…_

“Will you come with me?” he rasped.

No promises, no precious tirades, just the question that had most likely burned his lips for a while. Any knight of the Vale would have beribboned his speech, but Sandor Clegane had always been matter-of-fact.

“We can cross the Narrow Sea and hide there for a while, until this bloody war is over,” he added. “What do you say?” Words tumbled out of his mouth and she noticed how he breathed quicker, waiting for her reply. _I guess I once gave him a good reason to expect a disappointing answer._

“I will. I will come with you.”

Silence stretched in the godswood as he kept her hand in his, drinking in her sight. From where they stood, they couldn’t hear the laughters and the singing in the High Hall, but Sansa imagined lords and knights drinking and celebrating. _And Petyr ignoring what I’m about to do._

“Do you want my favor for the tourney?” she asked all of a sudden, eager to break the silence. “I didn’t even take any ribbon when I left my bedchamber…”

A snort of a laughter filled the godswood. “Favors are just a way for ladies to stake their claim, like dogs piss to stake their territory…” As soon as he had uttered these words, Sandor Clegane’s eyes widened. He looked like he realized how insulting he was being: he obviously wished he could take them back.

“I will certainly not force you to take my favor and to wear it as I don’t want to hurt your pride,” she retorted softly, trying not to laugh at his embarrassment. “There is, however, a kind of favor that can’t be seen and only the sender and the recipient know of its existence.”

As he gave her a quizzical look, she stood on tiptoe and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. It reminded her of another kiss and of another night. For a long time she had genuinely believed the Hound had stolen a kiss from her before fleeing from King’s Landing. With time, she had realized that kiss she remembered so vividly had only existed in her imagination.

Sandor Clegane didn’t react immediately. It was only when she broke their kiss that he wrapped one arm around her waist and cupped her face with the other. The second kiss was as hungry and feverish as the first one had been tender and pure. He wanted to taste her and to steal her breath; she soon parted her lips for him and let him deepen their kiss, until he stopped, panting. He then tried to push her away, as if he feared what he could do to her, but Sansa resisted and buried her face in his brown robe.

“Little bird… You should go to your room and pack. Tomorrow the Elder Brother will come to you when it’s time.”

She didn’t want to let go of him. Fisting the coarse fabric of his robe, she hung onto him. “One more moment, please.”

He smelled of leather and stables and beyond that, there was his own smell she had not forgotten. She breathed him in. _Some things never change._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa collected herself before walking to the door. Servants were already clearing the long tables; as she moved past two of them she heard one whispering to the other: “People saw lady Lysa’s ghost and now there’s a dead brown brother in the castle’s stables! I saw him, wrapped in his shroud.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by the lovely LadyCyprus: thank you so much for your help!  
> Thank you all for reading and commenting.  
> I know it's been a long time since I last updated and I'm sorry I'm such a slow writer. To make up for it, this chapter is long: it's like 2 updates in one, or maybe 3 in one...  
> In this final installment, I asked myself how could someone escape the Eyrie, which is supposedly impregnable to attack. In the books, the castle is so well-guarded one easily imagines you can't just run away from it without getting caught. I racked my brains and tried to surprise you (we'll see if it works).

Sansa’s bedchamber was silent, save for the muffled sound of the brush going through her hair.

She remembered a time when meeting other people’s expectations was less a duty than a pleasure. She recalled Septa Mordane’s lessons and her own enthusiasm to follow her advice and to even forestall her expectations whenever she could do so. There was a time when her duties as the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North never seemed dull or boring, no matter how long she was asked to smile and make conversation with her father’s guests. _Have I changed so drastically?_ she asked herself as her maid got rid of the remaining knots and tangles. Sansa glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The young woman sitting while a servant brushed her hair looked bored, to say the least. She didn’t took any pleasure in having someone help her get ready or choose a dress; when arriving at the tourney, wearing her finery, she would have to make a huge effort to smile politely at the knights and to endure their shallow compliments. _How come I lost all interest in these things?_

Unaware of Sansa’s thoughts, the maid went into ecstasies about her mistress’ shiny hair; Sansa once more gazed at her reflection and saw the young maid holding a dark brown strand. Her shoulders sagged. There was a time when no maid was allowed to touch her hair because it was Lady Catelyn Stark’s pleasure to comb her daughter’s auburn locks. _Deep down, I didn’t change. My circumstances did. I can still take pleasure in fulfilling my duties. My own duties, not those of a bastard girl who is forced to lie._

“Enough,” she hissed.

It was so unusual the maid took a step back and frowned at Sansa’s reflection in the mirror. The poor girl didn’t know she had nothing to do with her lady’s reaction and she therefore feared she had made a blunder. Sansa couldn’t simply tell her where her exasperation came from.

“Thank you, Hazel, I will finish myself,” Sansa said, softening. “Please go to the kitchen and bring back some bread and whatever ham and cheese youfind.”

“My lady already broke her fast!”

Hazel was right, she had broken her fast, although she had kept some of the bread for later. _For the journey._ Unless Sandor had lost his appetite on the Quiet Isle - which seemed unlikely - a chunk of bread wouldn’t last long though. _We will need more food._

“Are you familiar with tourneys?” she asked the maid. “Lords and knights get so passionate about the jousting and the melee, and one never knows when these things end. You don’t want me to starve, do you?”

Still surprised, the maid shook her head, said she would be back soon with the food and she left.

For the hundredth time Sansa checked  the trunk where she hid warm clothes and personal items she wanted to pack for their journey, then she braided her hair loosely and headed to Sweetrobin’s apartments. The bustle in the castle and outside soon told her it was time to go to the tourney.

* * *

_Will someone recognize him? He’s taller than any other contestant. How many years did Petyr and Sandor spend in King’s Landing, before I arrived with Father and Arya? Ten years? More? They saw each other almost every day, they observed each other. Petyr could identify him._

Hiding his features behind an old helmet, Sandor stood at the end of the line as the knights greeted the young lord of the Vale. The mismatched pieces of armor covering his upper body contrasted with the breastplate he used to wear in King’s Landing; unlike his rivals who protected their legs behind metallic cuisses, poleyns and greaves, he had donned boiled-leather breeches and worn-out boots. He nevertheless looked fierce and she noticed with amusement the knight next to him discreetly moved to put as much space between Sandor and himself as possible. Her heart pounded in her chest, as the knights strew roses at Sweetrobin’s feet, making the boy believe he was as gallant and as formidable as them. Casting a glance at her cousin’s hands, she saw how he shook with emotion. _If Sweetrobin has a shaking fit because of their nonsense, they won’t have to take care of him, I will,_ she thought as she restrained herself from glaring at them. 

Earlier, the herald had shouted the names of the knights and lords one by one; when he had arrived next to Sandor, the Elder Brother had interrupted him, explaining the last contestant was a brother who had made a vow of silence.

“Please consider our brother’s presence in this tourney as a proof of the Faith’s loyalty to  the Lord of the Vale,” the Elder Brother had added with a smile. “He’s no ser, but he’s a true knight of the Faith and as such, he will protect you, my lord, shall the Seven give him victory.”

The boy had beamed at that, but Sansa wondered if Petyr Baelish believed the Elder Brother’s words.

The knights finally stopped singing Sweetrobin’s praise; still trembling, the young lord of the Vale stood up, shrieked some encouragement and the tourney began.

_What if Sandor loses his helmet during a fight?_ In the periphery of her vision, Petyr watched the first joust, not missing a thing. _Is he genuinely interested?_ Sansa doubted a man like Petyr Baelish had a taste for tourneys. During the Tourney of the Hand he had spent more time gossiping than enjoying the accomplishments of the knights. _Is it possible that he already recognized Sandor?_ Sandor was not on horseback yet, but like the other knights, he was on the field, ready to help the contestants dismount. _This is foolhardy. Let us hope the Elder Brother has a plan to make us leave the Eyrie._

The jousting went on until noon; Sandor defeated his opponents one by one, eliciting cries of surprise in the audience and bitter reactions amongst his rivals. Sansa felt her chest constrict every time she saw Petyr leaning forward, squinting.

After Sandor won over his last opponent, Petyr turned to Sansa and asked her: “Be a good daughter and go give him this purse as a reward for his victory.” He handed her a leather purse, heavy with gold. “Ask him his name.”

Holding the purse, Sansa tilted her head. “Isn’t he a silent brother? He will not answer me, I’m afraid.”

“A silent brother, indeed. That  is how the Elder Brother introduced him...” Petyr trailed, the smile playing about his lips suddenly heightening her fears. “If this man is to win, Alayne, don’t you want to know who will protect our beloved Lord Robert?”

Speechless, she nodded. Her knees wobbled as she walked down to the field; people whispered behind her and she heard one lord wonder about the lack of color in her face. The visor of Sandor’s helmet still covered his features as she closed the distance between them. He had dismounted and stood by the black horse the monks had arrived with; both horse and rider were panting despite the cold.

“Take this purse, Brother, as a reward for your valor!” she said loudly, making sure everyone could hear her words.

Without a word, Sandor lifted the heavy purse while the audience clapped half-heartedly. Sansa then glanced at Petyr who nodded. _He expects me to whisper my question to Sandor. I don’t want to disappoint him, do I ?_

Inching closer, she said under her breath: “Are you sure you don’t want my favor?” She recalled their conversation, the night before and the kiss they had exchanged.

“The favor you gave me was all I ever wanted,” he growled, making her shiver.

Hiding the joy she felt was the hardest part as she walked back to her seat. _I must be beaming, right now._

“So?” Petyr inquired, as the herald announced a break for lunch.

“I asked, Father, but he didn’t answer.” _Under his helmet, no one could see Sandor’s lips move, nor hear his answer,_ she reassured herself.

Was the Lord of Harrenhal happy with her explanation? She didn’t know. It was lunch time and everyone was going back inside the castle. Sweetrobin insisted on eating at the knights’ table.

“You’re welcome to join us, Alayne,” the boy told her. “It’s useless to invite the silent brother though, since he doesn’t speak. I’ll congratulate him tonight, even if I can’t expect an answer.”

During the lunch, she thought wiser to avoid Sandor and she instead behaved like the dutiful daughter she was supposed to be, making conversation with the lords of the Vale and smiling graciously whenever someone complimented her. Soon enough they all left the comfort of the Hall to go back outside. On her way to the field where the melee was meant to take place, she caught up with the Elder Brother, who seemed to be waiting for her.

She glanced over her shoulder to see if Petyr was observing them before asking: “When? When are we leaving?”

“It has to be on the morning after the tourney, otherwise it will be suspicious. But _this_ has to stop.”

“What are you talking about? What did I do?”

The Elder Brother smiled. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I was talking about our common friend. If he wins again, he’ll have to stay here to be a member of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights, and it’s not the plan we agreed on.”

Sansa nodded vehemently.

“ I have a hard time convincing him, but he can’t continue to draw attention like he did earlier…” he confided.

“I could find a way to persuade him.”

Her offer made her blush as soon as she finished her sentence. The Elder Brother didn’t seem to notice though, and he shook his bald head. “You have to stay away from him for now. It’s too dangerous if someone sees you with our friend. If you have any message, I’ll be glad to pass it on to him. For now I have to figure out how we can leave the Eyrie with you.”

As the Elder Brother walked away, Sansa had the nagging feeling she would only see Sandor from afar without being able to talk to him.

* * *

During the afternoon and the next day the tourney went on and Sansa diligently followed the Elder Brother’s advice, avoiding Sandor; he also kept his distance,but  she sometimes felt his stare on her. She could have been mistaken though, because he kept his helmet on and no one could tell what he was looking at.

After his victory during the first morning, Sandor’s attitude drastically changed and to everyone’s surprise, his performance was less than satisfactory. The skilled man who had unhorsed all his opponents was gone and he looked clumsy in the melee. Although his unlikely success in jousting had piqued the lords of the Vale’s curiosity, by the end of the first day, the audience had completely forgotten the silent competitor with a mismatched armor and everyone was instead talking about the Templeton brothers and the dashing knight of Elesham. These men had shown their skills, they came from well-known houses of the Vale and therefore they were designated to protect Lord Robert. They would most likely figure among the Winged Knights.

Myranda Royce approached Sansa on the second day of the tourney, asking her why she had been acting so strangely. After Myranda, Petyr questioned Sansa and tried to make her talk, but she managed to reassure both her friend and her ‘father’. Lies came easily now and she was ready to do whatever it took to leave the Eyrie.

On the third morning, a chilly wind made the lords and ladies shiver in their furs. Sansa was sitting next to Sweetrobin, who seemed more agitated than usual. _Is he going to have another seizure? I hope not. If he is I’ll have to take care of him, but I can summon the Elder Brother on the pretext that he is a gifted healer…_ She swiveled her head to the right, looking for the septon, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The archery trial was about to begin when the Elder Brother showed up, walked to the gallery and planted himself in front of Petyr Baelish. Lord Belmore muttered something about the effrontery of the septon who seemingly took a perverse pleasure in disturbing the tourney, but the Elder Brother ignored him.

“What do you want?” Petyr asked coldly. With his gloved hand, he clasped his fox fur collar.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I have bad news. One of our brothers died at dawn. I was there when he breathed his last.”

_Oh no. Poor man..._ Sansa couldn’t suppress a gasp of shock. Next to her, Sweetrobin’s foot was bobbing up and down. When she looked up, she noticed how the Elder Brother’s face looked tired.  

Petyr’s effort not to roll his eyes wasn’t very convincing. From where she was, Sansa could almost guess what he was thinking. _These damn brown brothers arrive at the worst moment, when the Eyrie is crowded with lords and knights, they disturb my tourney with this stupid idea of the Faith’s champion protecting Lord Robert and now one of them has the audacity to die in my castle…_

“So…?” the Lord of Harrenhal retorted. “I guess you’ll be going soon.”

“This is why I didn’t want to put this conversation off until later, my lord. My brothers and I will leave the Eyrie tomorrow, at dawn. We need to bury our brother in the Quiet Isle as soon as possible. We will not forget your hospitality and-”

Petyr’s sudden gesture cut him off. “Good. I’m sure you have many things to see to before your departure.” If his dismissive tone incensed the Elder Brother, the septon didn’t blink; he nodded, then silently walked away.

Sansa’s mind started racing. _Who’s the deceased brother? The one who coughed? It must be him, he looked so weak… How long will it take to go back to the Quiet Isle to bury him? How does this affect our plan? Is it… postponed? Cancelled?_

“You look awfully pale, Alayne,” Sweetrobin whispered. “Is it because someone died?”

Unable to speak, she nodded. _What if I can’t leave the Eyrie?_ Sansa’s stomach knotted at the thought and she spent the next couple of hours wondering what would happen to her if she had to stay there, to marry Harry the Heir or whoever Petyr wanted to be her lord husband. _This is a nightmare._ In comparison, her vivid nightmares with her aunt Lysa and the moon door were just a laugh.

After the archery trial Sansa was hardly able to stand and she walked back to the Hall on wobbling knees. Harry Hardyng himself left his table to exchange a few words with her but Sansa felt like her answers didn’t make much sense. The more she tried to explain herself, the more Harry’s frown deepened. _Seven save us, I sound like an idiot. At least, he will tell himself I’m as stupid as he expected me to be._

Small groups of people left the High Hall, eager to see the knights fight again. Sansa deliberately stayed behind, trying to spot the Elder Brother in the crowd. She was craning her neck to see if he wasn’t behind the pillar at the other end of the hall when someone next to her cleared their throat.

Ser Lothor Brune was there, arms folded about his chest. “Is my lady looking for something?”

She sighed. “I was- I was looking for Lord Robert. Have you seen him, perchance?”

Ser Lothor smacked his lips. “He must be outside, already. Everybody’s going back to the gallery…” Sansa thought he would leave, yet he kept gazing at her. Under his scrutiny, she started feeling uncomfortable. “What is it you have on your mind, lady Alayne?”

Her nails dug deep in the flesh of her palms. “Things will be easier when the tourney is over,” she explained.

“You look different since the tourney began, I can see it. Is there something you’re holding back?”

Sansa slowly shook her head. Lothor Brune opened his mouth as if he wanted to add something, then he swiveled on his heels and headed to the door. Once he was out of sight, Sansa let out a deep sigh and leaned against the back of an armchair. _Should I tell him?_ Of all the persons who surrounded her in the Eyrie, he had been the most reliable, although nothing forced him to be honest with her. _I’m not even sure I’m leaving, now that the circumstances have changed,_ she mused, squeezing her eyes shut. 

She collected herself before walking to the door. Servants were already clearing the long tables; as she moved past two of them she heard one whispering to the other: “People saw lady Lysa’s ghost and now there’s a dead brown brother in the castle’s stables! I saw him, wrapped in his shroud.”

* * *

During the afternoon, Sandor’s dull performance so far below  the prowess he had demonstrated  in King’s Landing. He looked almost clumsy with a sword and she knew for sure he was pretending not to be as good as he was. _Maybe Petyr has forgotten about him like the rest of the audience and he has stopped wondering about his true identity,_ she told herself in an attempt to lift her own spirits.

The winter sun was setting when the audience cheered the best competitors of the tourney who would become the first members of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights. The Elder Brother took advantage of the confusion in the gallery and on the field to close the distance between them. Sansa instantly told him how sorry she was for the loss of one of his brothers. Surprisingly enough, the Elder Brother’s first answer was a smile, so genuine, so innocent, Sansa’s mind went blank. _Mother have mercy, what does it mean?_

“My lady, we need to talk. I was told there’s a godswood in this castle: would you be so kind as to take me there?”

In contrast with the lords and knights shouting and congratulating themselves somewhere behind them, Sansa and the Elder Brother walked in silence. Questions burned her lips yet she restrained herself from voicing them aloud as long as they were not in the godswood. When they arrived, Sansa mentally prepared herself for whatever the Elder Brother was going to reveal. _I’ll try to stay strong if he tells me that with the brown brother’s death I can’t run away anymore._

The bald man observed her carefully before explaining: “No one died, my lady. I am terribly sorry I had to lie and to trouble you.”

Sansa closed her eyes for a second, wondering if she was just imagining things. _Did he really say that?_ When she opened her eyes again, the Elder Brother was still there, hands hidden in his sleeves.

“I heard a servant talking about a body in a shroud, earlier,” she said.

“Brother Eliaz is in a shroud and I told him not to move a muscle, but he’s not dead.”

_It doesn’t make any sense!_ The Elder Brother looked as poised as ever and his tone was even; Sansa nevertheless felt a surge of anger as she couldn’t fathom what was going on. “I- I don’t understand. What is this all about?”

The septon stepped closer. “This is the best plan we could come with to make sure we can leave the Eyrie with you and without getting caught. Sandor’s presence at the tourney caught Lord Baelish’s attention. He will give his men orders regarding our departure.”

“Of course he will! I don’t understand what all this has to do with a brown brother pretending to be dead…”

“We left our cart at the Gates of the Moon and took the goat trail leading to the castle on foot. We’ll have to go down the mountain the same way. When we arrived here, we were five. Lord Baelish’s men won’t let a group of six persons leave. They expect five brothers, one being in a shroud… Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Sansa’s eyes widened. _Does he mean what I think he means?_ Her throat was as dry as Maester Luwin’s parchments as she asked: “Are you suggesting that-”

A determined nod was the Elder Brother’s first answer. “Brother Eliaz will stay here while you take his place in the shroud. We’ll carry you down the goat trail until we reach the cart.”

Her knees wobbled and she read concern in the Elder Brother’s eyes. _I’m not going to faint if that’s what he thinks. I can be strong._

“But… what about Brother Eliaz?” she asked suddenly. “How will he get back to the Quiet Isle?”

The Elder Brother gave her a reassuring smile. “He volunteered to help you, and he’s resourceful: he will find a way to escape the Eyrie on his own and should he fail he won’t be of any use to Lord Baelish after you’re gone. Like the rest of us, he doesn’t know where Sandor plans to take you.”

She leaned against a tree trunk, trying to get a grip on herself.

“Tonight,” the Elder Brother whispered. “After the feast, when they’ll all be in their cups, join us in the stables.”

* * *

The never-ending feast had been an ordeal for Sansa; whether she turned her eyes to Myranda, to Lothor Brune or to the servants who had been kind with her, she couldn't help thinking she'd never see them again. She'd never get a chance to thank them for their help or their kindness towards her. _But_ _I can't do otherwise, can I ?_

After the feast she waited for a long time, sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing the woolen dress and the thick cloak she had chosen for this journey, listening to the faintest noises in the hallway. Finally, the castle was silent.

The moon was high in the sky when she left her bedchamber, carrying only a bundle with her belongings and some food. Just like the night after Sandor's arrival, when she was obsessed with this strange idea of a ghost haunting the Eyrie, her heart pounded in her chest as she headed to the stables. What if someone saw her ? _You never know what can happen after a tourney. Knights get drunk to celebrate their victory or to forget their defeat, they wander through the castle..._ She remembered well how a certain man who wasn't anointed had scared her with his wine-induced confessions after the Tourney of the Hand. _He won't get drunk tonight: the stakes are too high._

Four men were gathered around a tallow candle when she pushed open the door and walked in the stables: the Elder Brother, Sandor, the old, weak brown brother who coughed at the feast the other night, and a younger man with a flat nose. Sandor heaved a sigh of relief when he recognized her under her hood, and the Elder Brother got to his feet.

“We managed to get rid of the stable boys,” he informed Sansa. “We should be careful though. Come with us.”

She followed them to the back of the stables, where Brother Eliaz lied in the straw, wrapped in his shroud. The moment he saw his companions with Sansa, he sat up and nodded silently to greet her. He was in his thirties and his brown eyes exuded intelligence.

“We took the liberty to partly sew the shroud,” the Elder Brother explained as Brother Eliaz contorted himself to get out of it. “To save time.”

Sansa handed a letter to Brother Eliaz, who gave her a puzzled look. “I cannot thank you enough for what you’re doing,” she said, “ I think you can always try to leave the Eyrie with the contestants of the tourney. I brought a tunic  and breeches to help you blend in. But… if it is more difficult than expected, you need to find Ser Lothor Brune. Give him this message and he will help you.”

Without a word, Brother Eliaz nodded. Silence stretched until the Elder Brother spoke: “We have a couple of hours before leaving. Try to get some rest. We’ll be over there if you need us.” With that, he walked away followed by the brown brothers.

Only Sandor stayed with Sansa. She sat down on the straw and gave the shroud a sideways glance.

“Imagine it’s a bedroll,” Sandor advised her.

“A bedroll,” she repeated, before inserting her legs inside the shroud and pulling the fabric until only her arms and head were out of it.

Sandor observed her, then sat on his haunches with a grunt. Their eyes met and she saw how concerned he was.

“Seven hells… No one has escaped the Eyrie this way, as far as I know.” He cleared his throat, then shifted, making the straw rustle underneath him.

She exhaled a deep sigh before whispering: “Maybe Alayne Stone must die so that Sansa Stark can live again.”

He chuckled at that, lied down next to her and advised her to get some rest. Everything was quiet; the flickering light of the tallow candle cast shadows Sansa observed for a minute or so. Her eyelids felt heavy and the faint sounds of the stables - the roof creaking from time to time and Sandor’s breathing - lulled her to sleep.

* * *

Straw rustled next to her and a large hand covered her shoulder; she moaned softly and opened her eyes as someone tentatively shook her arm. In the dim light, she saw Sandor leaning over her. Then she remembered. _The tourney, the Elder Brother’s plan to escape the Eyrie, the shroud…_ A shiver ran down her spine.

“It’s almost time, little bird. I need to sew the shroud.”

By way of protestation, she let out a deep sigh. _Sandor Clegane sewing… I’d never thought I’d see this in my life._ He didn’t even seem awkward with a needle. His hand didn’t shake, he was focused on his task; once her eyes adjusted themselves to the feeble light, she was able to read tension on his features. _He’s worried._

And all of a sudden, he froze, gazed at her and asked: “Are you sure this is what you want? You still have time to run back to your apartments, if you’ve changed your mind.” _Is this what he was wanted to ask me without daring to do so? Is this why he looked nervous?_

She shook her head. “How could I change my mind? I’m running away. With you.”

A brief nod was his answer. He was about to resume his task when she stopped him, drew him closer and bored into his eyes; she could feel his hot breath and from where she was, lying on the straw, nothing existed beyond Sandor’s scarred face and the dark curtain of his hood. Heart fluttering in her chest, she waited for what seemed like ages before his mouth covered hers. The kiss was not as feverish as the one he had given her in the godswood; that night, before the tourney began, Sandor had kissed her as if he thought he wouldn’t have another taste of her again. In comparison this kiss was fervent, but it never made her feel like it might be the last time he held her in his arms. In the end, he placed light kisses on her lips and neck. _There will more moments like this one,_ she mused, eyes closed, breathing his scent. _Soon._

Maybe their budding intimacy made him nervous, because he started explaining how they would carry her in a litter on the way to the Gates of the Moon.

“I thought you would carry me over your shoulder,” she commented, chiding herself afterwards. _What is he going to imagine now? That my secret wish is to be carried over his shoulder, as if we were wildings?_

He cleared his throat. “It crossed my mind, little bird. Until the Elder Brother reminded me that we were carrying a dead body. Littlefinger’s men are cunts, but they expect to see the shroud of a man who’s been dead for hours and whose body is as flexible as a log. You’ll be safe on the litter: I’ll carry you with Brother Adrian.” He paused, as there was now a very little opening in the shroud. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She inhaled deeply.

“By the end of the day, you’ll be free.” Once the last stitches were done, she heard him call his brothers; the straw rustled again. Two pairs of hands grabbed her shoulders and her feet and she was placed onto the litter.

* * *

_Don’t move a muscle. Stay silent._ Despite the monks’ prudence Sansa bit her lip more often than not. The coarse fabric of the shroud itched, yet she couldn’t scratch her nose. Being carried in a litter was scary because she couldn’t help imagining the precipice on their right. All things considered, knowing the treacherous path they were taking, being aware of its danger made things worse.

Then there were the soldiers. They had asked various questions to the Elder Brother, going so far as to give a look at the content of the bundles they carried, commenting on Sandor’s horse bad temper and asking the brothers to take off their scarves so that they could see their faces. Alayne’s ‘father’ was behind these measures against the Elder Brother’s little group.

“We will escort you to the Gates of the Moon,” had said one of the soldiers. His tone was so arrogant Sansa didn’t need to see his face to imagine a smug smile on it. _Right to the end,_ she had thought. _I will anguish over this right to the end._ The soldiers’ raucous laughter was a constant reminder of the threat weighing upon them.

Sansa knew it from Mya, it took a couple of hours to go from the castle to the Gates of the moon. _For how long have they been walking?_ From time to time, they stopped and carefully placed down the litter. Sansa then felt a presence very close to her and a hand on her shoulder: it was Sandor’s way to comfort her as they made progress under the soldiers’ scrutiny.

“The Gates, at last! We’ve almost arrived.” She recognized the Elder Brother’s voice. None of the brothers answered, as they were not supposed to talk. Besides, the Elder Brother’s comment was pointless for them, as they could all see the gates by themselves; Sansa told herself he was addressing her, more than the monks.

Once the soldiers took their leave, they resumed their strange procession. Sansa felt that the litter was lifted onto something - the cart, probably. Ten feet away, someone whispered to the horse and she assumed Sandor was harnessing his mount.

When the cart moved off, she was still inside the shroud and she didn’t know if they were safe yet. Finally, a form leaned over her, two hands started tearing up the shroud and she saw the inside of the cart and the sky above. She gulped fresh air. On her right, Sandor gazed at her as if it was the first time he saw her. He gave her a crooked smile and helped her sit up.

The cart snaked its way along the winding road. Looking ahead, Sansa contemplated the enclosed valley. Behind her the Eyrie loomed, but she didn’t want to look behind her. She gazed straight ahead, where the valley became wider.

She found Sandor’s fingers and squeezed them. _Alayne Stone doesn’t exist anymore,_ she thought. _I’m free._  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess _The Count of Monte Christo_ inspired me for Sansa's escape...  
>  This little fic is over. If you enjoyed the ride, please let me know!


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